Trajectory
by rose griffes
Summary: It's petty, but Napoleon wants to beat his new partners in a game of Frisbee. (background Gaby x Illya)
1. Chapter 1

**Groton, Connecticut, USA  
July 1963**

Back in the good ol' U.S. of A., thinks Solo, and wonders when exactly Sanders' voice became so ingrained in his subconscious that he can hear it even when the short man with the long leash was nowhere in sight.

It's not usually part of the C.I.A.'s purview, posting an agent on U.S. soil, but this assignment is unusual in plenty of other ways. Sanders hadn't contacted him; instead Director McCone himself made the phone call.

Frankly Solo would rather deal with the short devil that he already knew. But here he is, walking along Esker Point Beach with the ex-wife of the submarine captain who has gone missing. Along with all his crew and the submarine itself.

Gaby and the Red Peril are a few miles away, in close proximity to the Naval base and their colleagues inside. The U.S. Navy has gone to extraordinary lengths to be as transparent as possible-in private dealings with both allies and enemies, if not in public-which has led to this: under the auspices of U.N.C.L.E., Gaby coordinates intel-sharing with SIS and the KGB, Kuryakin shadows the KGB agent that the organization chose for its semi-public face, and Solo... well, he's the honeypot. Again.

He doesn't think Marlene knows anything about her ex-husband's doings, but he's here to make sure. To play the beach bum that Marlene can confide in after downing generous portions of Blue Hawaiians and Vodka Gimlets.

"Robert, look over there!" Marlene grabs his arm and points it in toward the water. "They're playing with a Frisbee!"

He looks closer at the group of young people throwing a lightweight disk-made of plastic, he thinks, rather than metal. "That's a Pluto Platter," he tells Marlene. Or a Flynn Saucer; another name that bobs to the surface of his memories.

She shrugs, uninterested in what he called the thing, and tugs him toward the group. Solo spends the afternoon getting a sore wrist and a sunburn, and learning exactly zero secrets from Marlene, who is more interested in watching shirtless men throw around a plastic saucer than in sharing confidences.

At least he wins whatever unofficial contest they're engaged in. Grand prize: the Frisbee disk itself. (Marlene was right; that name is printed across the top of it.)

* * *

Twenty-four hours later he meets up with Gaby and Illya in the ballroom of a hotel-not the hotel where Gaby stays in her official role, or where Illya doesn't sleep in his publicly undisclosed role. It's a boring meeting, but he's pathetically happy to see them and talk about something, anything, other than what passed as small talk in Marlene's circle of friends.

Okay, and maybe he's slightly pleased to see his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues, even if they're not all officially working for U.N.C.L.E. this time.

(The Istanbul mission ended two weeks ago; they arrived separately in Connecticut, flying in from different countries, and while Solo definitely works better alone, it's not always bad to have someone else around. Neither the Red Peril nor Gaby are hard on the eyes, and they're surprisingly effective given the one's temper and the other's newness to the job.)

Gaby finishes her U.N.C.L.E.-sanctioned news report, Illya stays close-mouthed, and Solo gets his turn. He pulls the Frisbee disk out of his briefcase with a flourish, stating, "This is what I have to report."

"Was ist das?" Gaby blurts out. It's a satisfying enough result to his deliberate dramatics.

"It's a Frisbee disk. And this is about as exciting as things got during the beach date with Marlene yesterday." He tosses it lightly and it sails across the length of the ballroom, bouncing off the wall and falling to the floor.

"This is for what purpose?" asks Illya.

"It's a game, Peril. You toss the Frisbee to your friends, they chase it around, you all get sunburned and drink a lot, and you don't share any secret plots your ex-husband had to steal a submarine and its crew."

Gaby raises her eyebrows. "At least you got to drink."

Fair point, he thinks. Per her report, she's been on the phone with London or talking to a KGB agent with a thicker accent than Illya's for the last three days.

Illya walks across the ballroom and then returns, Frisbee disk in hand. He examines it, turning it over. "Why the name Frisbee?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" He doesn't actually know the answer to Illya's question. Marketing, copyright law, a whim...

Illya bends his knees, flexes his wrist and throws it. It flops over, traveling maybe a third of the length of the ballroom. Gaby giggles, and it's the first time Solo has heard a sound like that come out of her mouth since-well, ever.

Illya's eyes narrow in a glare at Solo as he stalks back with the disk in hand again. "Teach me this," he says.

Napoleon hasn't actually thought through how he learned to throw the Pluto Platter; it takes him a few dry runs, feeling how his muscles work, to describe what to do.

On his next throw, Illya manages to get the Frisbee to hit almost the exact same spot on the far wall as Solo had earlier.

"Hmph," says Gaby, and takes the disk from Illya when he comes loping back again. Her toss isn't elegant, but it's serviceable enough to move the Frisbee almost the length of the ballroom. She smiles, pleased that her first throw didn't flop as badly as Illya's did.

Illya returns from yet another retrieval jog across the room. "This could be useful for delivery of information," he says. "In certain situation."

Gaby scoffs. "That doesn't sound very fun." She gestures imperiously, and Illya hands her the Frisbee. She takes careful aim, more graceful this time, and tosses the disk. It sails over to the far wall in an arc almost identical to Illya's second throw.

After five more minutes of Gaby and Illya taking turns throwing the Frisbee (with Illya on permanent retrieval duty), the two of them have created a complicated point system that involves the Frisbee touching a dent on the wall, or below the second wall sconce, or striking the chair rail between the third and fourth wall panels.

Napoleon loses to both of them.

* * *

He's vigorously consoling himself over his loss in the arms of a wiry waitress from the hotel restaurant when the idea blooms into existence.

Gaby and Illya have worked together on two missions. They're either both oblivious to how much the other is attracted, or they're deliberately not acting on it. Either way, given the stifling tension that builds up between them when they're near each other, Napoleon knows it's only a matter of time.

In the meantime, though, he has a window of opportunity. A chance to win at Frisbee and enjoy watching the two of them suffer. He'll be in close proximity to the secretive glances, blushing cheeks, and lingering touches, but this time he'll be orchestrating that tension instead of just putting up with it and wishing they would get on with it with already.

Implementing the plan the next morning requires a visit to the hardware store, a hunt for appropriate attire, and finally a trip to the beach to scope out the site of their upcoming defeat. Then he practices whenever possible, and waits for the right moment.


	2. Chapter 2

p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-Napoleon isn't sure if the relatively generous thirty-six hours of freedom before reporting for duty again is thanks to Director McCone, or if Sanders was simply left out of the loop during this stateside mission. It's an unimportant detail, though. He gets a message to both Gaby and Illya, saying that they need to have a priority meeting, and sets the time and place.

* * *

"What's so urgent?" Gaby asks. Her wide sunglasses hide her eyes, and her careful movements broadcast hangover recovery: something else to factor into his strategy.

"Let's wait until-ah, here he is." Solo watches Peril finish walking to where they're standing: on a street corner next to a cafe that caters to the beach-going crowd. The man is still wearing his work clothes from this trip-quite literally all buttoned up in an American business suit. He looks stiflingly overdressed in the warm weather. Perfect for his plans, thinks Solo.

"I'm assuming you both have a day or two before you have to leave," Napoleon says.

Gaby and Illya look at each other-a communication with meaning that Solo isn't privy to-and then back at him.

"Yes," answers Illya, his tone shading from neutral to suspicious in one short syllable.

"I thought we could all unwind and have a saucer rematch on the beach. It would be a fun way to celebrate another successful mission."

Gaby lets out a tiny snort. "I don't know why you call it successful."

"Well, we're all still alive, and the hotel rooms are intact, too." He grins toothily at Peril, pushing the smugness of it way past subtle into obnoxious. Illya bristles, just as Solo anticipated. "Besides, I took your Frisbee disk point system and made a beach version of it, which is exactly what we need."

Illya and Gaby exchange another look. Apparently Gaby gets tagged as designated refuser-of-fun, which works out as Solo hoped. "I don't feel like playing in the sand just now," she says, adjusting the sunglasses to a higher angle.

He waits until he feels certain she must be looking at him, and raises his eyebrows. "Scared to lose this time?"

Gaby scoffs but doesn't relent yet, so he pulls out the next weapon in his arsenal. "The winner gets a bottle of the finest rum made in the region."

"I don't like rum," says Gaby.

"Rum is too sweet," Illya concurs.

"Well then, why don't you choose the prize." He aims for chivalrous in his tone instead of petty annoyance, with mixed results.

Gaby stands still, handbag draped over her shoulder: a chic woman with a hidden hangover, out on the town. "Fine," she finally says. "You owe me good whiskey when you lose again. Something expensive."

Before he can accept, she adds, "Something you buy instead of steal."

"I'll consider my honor duly maligned," he tells her. He considers adding a caveat that she isn't allowed to drink it in one sitting, but then remembers his ingracious plan for an immodest win. No need to worry about how she'll drink his expensive alcohol without properly appreciating it this time.

He turns to Illya. "What do you say, Peril. Are you in?" The question is meaningless. Once Gaby accepted, there was no doubt that Illya would stay too. The man nods once, looking alarmingly determined.

"I have everything you two need right here," he tells them, handing each of them a small paper bag. "Now go change in the cabins and I'll meet you at the beach-" he gestures, "Over there."

His own swim trunks double as shorts for the moment, along with a lightweight linen button-front shirt that he'll continue to wear until they step onto the beach. Now he just has to wait for Gaby and Illya to deploy the main weapons in his arsenal.

Nothing too obvious, of course: the swim trunks he found for Illya would be a decent length on his own frame, but he has the excuse of trying to fit a six foot five inch giant. The bikini is almost identical to what Ursula Andress wore in last year's Bond movie. Teller is built along more slender lines than the Swedish actress, but he has no doubt that Peril will find her beguiling anyway.

Gaby has a cover-up in her bag, but putting a top in Illya's bag would have been counter-productive. He doesn't want to risk Peril keeping a shirt on for the entire game.

Too bad he couldn't have arranged for this to happen earlier in the day; applying sunscreen would have been a nice starter. He'll just have to count on the rest to keep the two of them distracted.

Gaby emerges first, still wearing the dark glasses. Her ponytail drapes down her left shoulder, across the knot of the aubergine-colored sarong that grazes the tops of her thighs. She walks across the street to stand next him as he waits, her dancer's legs adding grace in spite of the hangover, and doesn't say a word. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell what she's looking at or thinking, and it sets him just a bit on edge.

In their acquaintance she's never been a chatterbox, but unlike Illya, she's usually decent with the expected social niceties, the occasional moment of small talk. Tamping down the moment of nerves, he smiles brightly at her.

The silence lingers while Illya finishes changing. That's when the doubt starts to set in. Napoleon spent so much time preparing the Frisbee course, practicing throws, getting the clothes, but executing the plan-this is where the human factor comes in. Maybe he didn't think all of this through well enough, Solo decides.

Peril is easy, at least when it comes to Gaby. His feelings for her run too close to the surface. Gaby, though-what she feels is a mystery. Attraction to the giant didn't sway her from throwing Illya to the dogs in Rome when her mission demanded it.

Too much is riding on the allure of Soviet beefcake, thinks Solo.

Staring at the changing room cabins, a feeling of dread slices through the earlier giddy effervescence of plotting. How could he have thought that he could beat a machine like Illya anyway, even if he did succeed at distracting him? The man trains in two different kinds of martial arts, and he actually likes to jog.

Maybe Solo shouldn't be doing this anyway. They can just throw around a plastic saucer and he can let his partners' infatuation, or whatever it is, run its course without interference.

Gaby startles him from his crisis of confidence with a quick intake of breath. He refocuses and spots Illya striding toward them. The man is either angry or-well, odds are that he's angry. He found a white tee-shirt somewhere-did he steal it? wonders Solo-and it's beautifully snug, outlining a broad expanse of chest and strong arms.

Below the burgundy swim trunks Peril's long, long legs are nicely muscled, especially those thighs. He's a Michelangelo sculpture in cool marble to contrast with Gaby's warm gold.

It takes Solo a moment to remember to check on Gaby; she still hasn't spoken. From the angle of her sunglasses it looks like she's staring at those legs. Good choice. Solo's fizz of excitement returns. Game on.

He deliberately turns his back on his male competition and offers an arm to Gaby. "Shall we?" After a dazed moment she turns around and puts her right hand in the crook of his elbow.

Peril catches up to them in quick strides. Napoleon long ago lost susceptibility to hostilities from other men in contests over women; good thing, too, otherwise he would be melting under the angry glare that beams at him over Gaby's head.

They walk on the sand to the course he set up earlier: a series of poles made from tubing he bought at the hardware store. And then it's game on, or rather, game explained.

"The concept is simple," he tells them. "Hit the poles with the Frisbee disk. Shorter poles are worth more points; taller poles are worth fewer points."

They're both staring at him as he narrates the rules: the uncooperative competition that he desperately wants to beat, just because.

"This may prove advantageous to Miss Teller, but we'll allow the lady to keep that privilege," Solo concludes, all magnanimous generosity.

Her expression tightens at his words. "You know I'm not actually short."

Illya makes the kind of comment Solo was hoping for. "Not short, no. But not tall either." He radiates a subtle smugness, and Gaby takes umbrage to it.

"I'm above average height for women in most European countries," she announces, "Including Germany."

"You're the perfect height for a lovely woman," Napoleon says, all bland gallantry to annoy Illya.

* * *

He doesn't know how it went wrong. The strategy is working brilliantly on Illya; the third round was when Gaby shed her sarong, and Illya hasn't been the same since. It's not just superspy James Bond who's charmed by a woman in a white bikini.

The crowd gathering to watch the spectacle helps in that regard; quite a few in the audience audibly or visibly appreciate the body Gaby honed by years of dance lessons, which has led to Illya carrying her sarong from one launch point to the next, just in case she gets a chill during their sunlit match.

Unfortunately Gaby seems capable of both appreciating the Russian beefcake on display and launching the Frisbee disk with perfect accuracy.

Napoleon slings the Frisbee and hits the mid-length pole. It grazes the pole; not as direct a hit as Gaby's earlier shot, but that doesn't matter for the point system, so he's satisfied. He waits for Illya to retrieve the disk, but Gaby is in some kind of whispered conversation with the man at the moment.

Someone from the crowd sends the Frisbee spinning back to Napoleon. He catches it and hollers over the noise of the wind and waves, "It's every man and woman for themselves! No plotting!"

Gaby looks mildly offended, while Illya just looks grim. He stalks over to the launch point for this round, grabs the Frisbee from Solo, and misses his shot. Again.

Satisfying, but it's not enough for Solo to have a chance at winning rather than just not losing.

They move to the next designated launch point, where Gaby has yet another perfect throw, this time against the wind.

Illya finally takes off his tee-shirt. The man has fewer scars than Napoleon might have guessed. His broad chest doesn't have the ultra-defined bulging muscles of some of the weightlifter types hanging out at the beach, but Napoleon appreciates the lean sculpted functionality of muscles honed by years of martial arts, watching as Illya retrieves the Frisbee again.

"Your shot," says Gaby, as Illya hands him the Frisbee.

He misses this time. Damn that wind coming off the water.

* * *

Gaby makes a perfect shot yet again and then does a few quick stretches, her toned legs on gorgeous display, and that's when Solo realizes that he's been had. And it's his own fault.

He may have decided not to screw his partners-or at least be a graceful loser as they chose not to screw him-but that didn't mean his subconscious mind was ready to ignore the plenteous pulchritude on display in front of him.

Gaby's point lead is almost unbeatable by now.

At least he can console himself with winning against the Red Peril, who looks surprisingly cheerful now for a man who's losing at a competitive sport. Cheerful for Illya reveals itself as not breaking things and an almost smile, which is a good look on that usually dour handsome face.

* * *

Gaby isn't a gracious winner, but she is very funny, even if it's mostly at his expense. Both literally and figuratively.

Illya stays for the festivities as well, a looming figure hovering nearby as Gaby and Solo have drinks at the beachside bar, and then as they walk to the nearest liquor store. Gaby has insisted on witnessing the purchase of the prize-winning bottle, to keep him honest.

She's probably right to do so, but he doesn't really mind.

Bottle triumphantly in hand, Gaby excuses herself to go back to her hotel to sleep. Napoleon assumes it's code for consume a good portion of the bottle.

Illya says he'll share a taxi with her, because his hotel is only a mile farther, and something about the look on Illya's face reveals a bit too much. The penny drops.

At some point Gaby figured out Solo's scheme. She took his own strategy and beat him with it. Her stretches right before his throw, the tee-shirt Kuryakin took off right before another throw-she plotted it all on that beach.

He hopes they enjoy their victory drinks together. Dammit.


End file.
